


A Slice of Heaven

by mollus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Humour, I Don't Even Know, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Pining, Pizza Man Castiel, Slow Burn, no pizza was harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:01:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollus/pseuds/mollus
Summary: But it’s true. Castiel Novak is worried. About Dean Winchester.Because he hasn’t ordered pizza in almost three weeks.Pizzeria AU, because I could. Contains cheese, both real and metaphoric, meddling brothers, the best laid plans gone amok, creative pizza-ing, an attempt to write the beginning of a porno script, and a poor abused vegetable.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> God bless prompts. Appreciation specifically goes to my amigo Matt, who is the prompt god. This fic cannot be held liable for any pizza inspirations. But I totally want pictures.

[Music starts up, “Casa Erotica: Opening Theme #4”. Camera pans slowly up a figure lying on her stomach on a large, frilly pink bed, with her legs crossed in the air behind her. It is a woman with long blonde hair examining a pizza menu. She wears a sheer black lace robe, and six-inch cherry red stilettos. Voice-over starts.]

Woman’s voice: On such a cold night while my husband is away fighting in a war, there’s nothing like a large, hot, meaty pizza to satisfy _all_ my cravings. Good thing Casa Erotica always delivers!

[The doorbell rings, and the woman slowly moves into a lounging position, and then pulls herself to her feet. The camera follows her as she saunters to the door.]

[The woman opens the door. A short man with a moustache is leaning on the door frame with one arm and looking away. He holds a pizza box and wears a delivery boy’s uniform of black boots, bright blue short shorts, a matching blue polo shirt with a black leather collar, and a black baseball cap; he turns to face the woman.]

“Someone order a slice of heaven… extra-large?” the man asks, looking the woman up and down lasciviously ( **Director’s Note: Not evilly** ).

[Camera pans back to the woman’s face. She licks her lips slowly and then smiles.]

“Oh, yes,” she replies. “But since my husband is off fighting giant alien slugs on Neptune, I just _couldn’t_ manage to eat my pizza… alone.”

[The woman takes the pizza box in one hand, and grabs Delivery Boy’s collar in the other.]

“You’ll just have to help me out,” she drawls.

[The woman drags Delivery Boy inside and throws the door closed ( **Director’s Note: Don’t let her break the door, she’s stronger than you think** ). She places the pizza carefully on the bed, where the logo, a blue label with gold lettering and a fluffy angel wing on each side, is clearly visible.]

[She grabs Delivery Boy’ and they embrace passionately. **Director’s Note: Make sure they do that curly-tongue thing; that gets them every time.** ]

“Oh, Delivery Boy!” the woman croons, once she has managed to remove her tongue from his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve given you a big enough tip!”

[Delivery Boy laughs roguishly ( **Director’s Note: _Not. Evilly_** ), and then whirls her around and lays her down neatly next to the pizza box. He takes off his hat, dramatically tears off his shirt ( **Director’s Note: Make sure you give him a snap-off shirt, he actually tore the normal one we gave him to shreds last time he did this** ), and then carefully puts the hat back on his head.]

[Focus on Delivery Boy’s face, making certain to include his hat, which features the same logo as the pizza box. Viewers should be able to read “A Slice of Heaven Pizzeria”.]

“Sugar,” the man says saucily, “I’ve got a big enough tip for us both!”

END CLIP

 **Director’s Additional Comments** : **Use this clip as a promo for the Casa Erotica: Pizza Party Mega Volume VII. Also, get Gabriel to sign more of those hats- those things are a gold mine, pity his brother won’t sell the rights to the name. Also _also_ , make _certain_ Gabriel hasn’t hidden any more candy on set. Genevieve had toffee in her hair for two days after this scene.** 


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel is worried.

He _would_ say vaguely worried, but he was vaguely worried last week. Today he is officially _worried_.

This is a disconcertingly new state of affairs for him. He doesn’t usually have people in his life to worry _for_. Gabriel can _more_ than take care of himself.

(In fact, he most often finds that he deeply regrets asking “What is wrong” when Gabriel is frowning. Last time he asked, it was that Gabriel’s favourite cotton-candy flavoured ribbed condoms and sparkly purple lube combo pack had been back ordered. These are things he most certainly does _not_ need to know about his brother. Even if it is in fact “professionally necessary!” as Gabriel had ranted.)

While Alfie is rather shy, and he did almost add his fingers to a deluxe pizza last week, he is a mostly competent young adult. The idea of needing to worry about Meg is laughable in and of itself. So, this is an odd feeling.

But it’s true. Castiel Novak is worried. About Dean Winchester.

Because he hasn’t ordered pizza in almost three weeks. 

 

_Almost Three Weeks Earlier_

 

“Oh, c’mon, Sammy!”

“I’m serious, Dean! I can’t _believe_ you’ve even managed doing this for _this long_. And don’t call me Sammy!”

Dean Winchester glared at his little brother where he sat on the opposite end of his small couch, and folded his arms across his chest. Sam seemed to believe that Bitch Face #5 would reinforce the dire-ness of the issue.

“Dean, you’re not a teenager anymore,” Sam started, “Actually, I don’t think even teenagers can eat this much pizza and not have- have _something_ go wrong! I don’t even want to _think_ about how much fat, sugar, and salt you’re consuming like this every day!” By this point, Sam had started signing some of the words as well as saying them out loud. That was usually Dean’s cue to back down, or there might be slamming doors or moose-sized flailing coming soon. However, there also wasn’t usually his main source of food on the line.

Dean frowned harder and reflexively hunched his shoulders higher and tighter, even though he _knew_ it made him look like the cranky younger sibling in the equation. 

“It’s not every day!” he shot back. “It’s like, two times a week, maybe!” (Yeah, who is Dean kidding? It’s more like three or four times a week. Whatever, Sam doesn’t need to know that.)

“Dean, I saw the boxes by the dumpster before I came in. It’s more than twice a week (God _damnit_ , Dean thought), and even twice a week would be way too much!” Sam said, glaring. Now the hands were going every other word, and his ridiculous hair was flopping all over the place as well.

We’ve reached critical mass, Dean thought gloomily. Here it comes.

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam started to plead. “It’s not healthy, even _you_ see that. You don’t want to have to take cholesterol pills like Dad did, do you? What if you got sick and couldn’t work? What if you had a heart attack? I’m halfway across the country, Dean!” With this final blow, Sam turned on Little Brother Puppy Eyes #3. He folded his hands in his lap and looked imploringly at Dean.

Ouch. Direct hit of the guilt missile.

Dean tried his best to think of _anything_ that might save him from a rapidly approaching trip to vegetable themed torture.

“But Sammy,” he whined, “It takes almost two hours for me to get to school, there _and_ back. I just don’t have the _time_ for cooking and school!” The school card might work, because Sam is as insistent as Dean ever was for Sam about continuing his education. He also started signing as well, a zebra’s last zigzag before the hungry lioness.

Sam’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and he set his jaw.

“One,” he said slowly and evenly, raising one finger at Dean, “You speed the entire way, so it does not take two hours to get back from school. Two,” he says, raising another finger threateningly, “You have plenty of time on the two days after work you _don’t_ have school, and especially the one day you don’t have _school or work_ , to make plenty of food. And three,” a third finger goes up, “I’m here on vacation for the next three weeks.”

Oh, no, Dean thought. He knows what’s coming now. He had a mental picture of a ship sinking beneath stormy waves, a massive tree at the final chop of the axe, and that hungry lioness making her final leap.

Sam pointed one of those three fingers directly at Dean.

“So _I’m_ picking food for the next three weeks.”

Oh, god, Dean thought sadly, salad hell is real.

Alfie will be so confused.


	3. Chapter 3

_Present_

So Castiel was worried. And Alfie was  _very_ worried.

Alfie was Castiel’s apprentice (“Do _not_ call him my sidekick, Gabriel, it is is not his official position title and it makes him excitable”) and part time delivery driver. He’d worked for Castiel for two years, starting as just his driver, and then slowly taking on more of the workload. Coincidentally, two years ago is precisely when Dean Winchester started ordering pizza from the pizzeria, and it was always when Alfie was on duty. Now, Alfie specifically requests Dean Winchester’s pizzas. They are friends; of a sort (Castiel believes that part of this may be sheer awe on Alfie’s side, from the stories, anyways). It would make sense for Alfie to worry.

On the other hand, Castiel himself has never actually _met_ Dean Winchester.

But he _had_  been making pizza for him several times a week for two years. It _felt_  like he should know him, by now.

Castiel let his gaze float across the currently empty pizzeria. It moved across the blue walls with fluffy clouds painted on them, the three spray-painted gold tables and their accompanying chairs, across the blue counter he stood behind (Castiel learned once that it was a calming colour) which divided the front room in half, and it landed on the large whiteboard standing on the opposite end of the counter.

  At the moment, it read, at the top:

 

“Secular”

Pepperoni. Cheese. Deluxe.  
  
---  
  
 

This part had clearly not been changed in a few years. The marker looked like it had hardened on to the surface of the whiteboard. Someone (probably Gabriel, but possibly Meg) had drawn a sad face with a halo next to this section. Underneath this, in obviously fresh marker, it read:

 

“Heavenly”

-          Tater tots, green peppers, cheddar

-          Mangoes, raspberries, pineapple, honey

-          The Spaghetti (meatballs, parmesan, mozzarella, pepper)

-          Gabe’s Delight (3 kinds of sausage, mozzarella, and a chocolate crust)

-          Pear, apricot, gorgonzola

-          Cas’ Heaven (pulled pork on beer dough)

-          Butternut squash, sage, bacon

-          Broccoli, eggplant, red peppers, feta, chili flakes

-          Pepperoni, ham, bacon, sausage, double cheese, beer dough, mozza stuffed crust

*Plus fresh orange juice on Saturdays. While supplies last.*

   
  
---  
  
 

This section had several different markers used on it, and a happy face with a halo (it looks to Castiel like Gabriel’s handiwork, but he remembered that Meg had learned how to counterfeit handwriting recently, and it does not pay to under-estimate Meg in any capacity).

Castiel was very proud of that menu. He grew a quiet smile as he remembered the day that he decided, in a blur of frustration and boredom, to just start making whatever kind of pizzas he felt like, and the positive responses he started to get almost immediately; especially after he decided to start buying locally and organically. Apparently Lebanon was just waiting for something like this, or at least that is what a rather enthusiastic young mother told Alfie last week. Castiel knows everything that you can know about that menu.

Now he frowned slightly, pursing his lips.

He _also_ knows which items are Dean Winchester’s favourites.

Mostly it’s the last one, with all the meat and cheese. Close seconds, however, are Cas’ Heaven (Castiel had objected to that name at first, but Gabriel and Alfie had insisted that customers liked the “personal touch”. Gabriel also added something about his never meeting the actual customers, but Castiel chose to ignore that) and the Spaghetti. While Castiel does appreciate fresh vegetables and what they do for pizzas, he completely sides with Dean Winchester’s seeming need for meat on his pizzas.

Dean Winchester is the only customer whose preferences he remembers so well. Helped, he is sure, by his overwhelming curiosity about his most frequent client.

As he was lost in thought, the bell on the door rang and he looked up, startled. It was Alfie, back from a delivery. Alfie put the pizza bag on the counter and came to stand next Castiel, his big brown eyes looking fretful.

“He hasn’t called or emailed, has he,” Alfie asked.

Castiel sighed resignedly. “No,” he replied, “He has not.” The pizzeria placed orders by drop-in, phone, or website, and Dean Winchester always placed his by email. Another mystery.

Alfie took the blue hat from his head and started twisting it in his hands. “That makes about… three weeks, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, “It does.” He squinted, frowning harder.

“So…” Alfie started, then stopped. He looked at Castiel, and the floor, nervously.

“…So?” Castiel asked, carefully. Alfie startled easily.

“So…” Alfie glanced up at him, and then finished in a rush: “What are we going to do?”

Castiel considered. But before he could open his mouth to tell Alfie he honestly had no idea, Gabriel blew through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen and back office with his customary ebullience.  He came to a stop, and slung an arm around his brother’s neck.

“Baby brother, shortstack, good afternoon!” Gabriel announced. Poor Alfie squeaked and almost tripped backwards over his own feet. Gabriel still made him a little nervous, after Alfie accidentally took Gabriel’s “special” delivery bag to a customer’s home instead of the actual order, back when Alfie first started. While Gabriel thought it was hysterical, and had decided that the new kid was a “fan _tas_ tic find, little bro!”, Alfie was slightly traumatized. It probably did not help that his customer, a 90-year-old lady in a senior’s facility, was more… accepting of the different bag than one would have expected. Alfie had managed to apologise and get back in one piece, but he was forevermore wary of Castiel’s brother.

Gabriel grinned at them both, missing Alfie’s nervousness as always. “Still fretting over the money-maker, I take it?”

Castiel and Alfie both frowned at him defensively.

“His name is not the money-maker, Gabriel, it is Dean Winchester,” Castiel answers. Castiel had difficulties understanding Gabriel’s nicknames sometimes. Alfie had given up trying to help him after Castiel gave him a blank face when Alfie tried to explain why Gabriel called him “Vader” a few months back.

(“I am not Gabriel’s father, I am his brother.”

“Yes, Castiel, but-”

“Linguistically it makes no sense.”

“That’s not-”

“And we do not speak German regularly”

“Reg… you know, never mind.”)

Gabriel waves a hand flippantly. “So he’s still off the grid, then?”

Castiel was briefly baffled (there is a grid of some kind, somewhere?), but Alfie rescued him.

“Yeah, for almost three weeks!” he said unhappily. Alfie seemed to have forgotten his nerves in the recollection of his worry. “Not one order, _nothing_.” His face abruptly began to pale. “What if he’s _sick_?” He flailed his hands, narrowly missing clipping a hand on the register. “What if he’s _dead_?!”

Castiel had not considered that, although it may be a little farfetched. Before he has time to do so, Gabriel stepped in, taking his arm from Castiel’s neck and leaning his back on the wall beside the kitchen doors.

“Calm yourself, munchkin.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “I have an idea.”

Castiel looked at him warily. Gabriel’s last idea had involved shellfish, horseradish, and cantaloupe.

“Why not just pay him a visit?” Gabriel asked. “ _Yourself_ , Castiel. Make him a _special_ pizza, free of charge, and bring it to his house. He’s dead, or moved away, or whatever, we’ve got an extra pizza, so what. He’s still there, you can say you were just checking in on a good customer! I’d bet he’d… _really_ appreciate it.” His eyes twinkled in a way that sometimes meant trouble, but Castiel didn’t really notice.

He also didn’t notice Alfie’s shocked and panicked expression, or the wink and throat-cutting motion that Gabriel proceeded to shoot Alfie.

Castiel was thinking it over.

It _would_ solve the problem quickly and easily. And it’s not like he didn’t know what Dean Winchester would want.

It would also just _happen_ to quench that curiosity.

He looked back at their expectant faces; Gabriel’s a smirk and Alfie’s a mild panic.

“Alright,” he said, “that would work.”

Gabriel whooped and Alfie’s face drained of any colour that was left. He started to stammer something, but Gabriel whipped a sucker from the jar they keep under the counter for kids (although Gabriel consumes most of them, “I like having something sweet and hard to suck on” he said once to Alfie’s asking him why; Alfie had proceeded to turn an interesting shade of red and took a day or two off), shoved it in Alfie’s open mouth, the used one hand to clamp Alfie’s jaw on it and the other to steer him toward where the phone was ringing.

Castiel, again, did not notice.

He was already back in the kitchen, looking for the beer dough he made that morning. If he hurried, he could have it done by 8pm.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Dean was pretty sure he’s dying, and it’s all Sam’s fault.

For the past (almost) three weeks, Sam had kept his promise (Threat? _Threat_ ) about making food for Dean. It had been smoothies for breakfast, sandwiches with more vegetables than meat for lunch, and dinners with four whole food groups to them. It had been pasta and granola and fruit salad and wraps and stir fry and soup and bagels and actual, literal salad.

He had started dreaming of a lioness chasing him. When it finally pounces on him, it sets a plate of spinach leaves in front of him and growls threateningly.

Once he tried telling Sam that while pizza does appear to be a large portion of his diet, he does go to the gym frequently and his job keeps him moving.

Sam’s response to that had included so much explicit signing that Dean high-tailed it fairly quickly.

He’d thought, once or twice (or like three times a day, and particularly when something called kale is involved with a meal), that maybe he could sneak over to the actual pizzeria. Then he had thought of Sam’s face if Sam found out.

The Chernobyl explosion came to mind.

That, and Sam’s guilt trip was still in full effect. Try as he might, Dean could very rarely say no to Sam. He’d practically raised that moose after their mom had died and John had bounced them around for so long. Unfortunately, it also meant that Sam had perfected what to say to convince Dean to do things his way.

Dean ruminated on all of this as he sat at his kitchen table, staring resignedly at the Greek salad, bread, and cheese that were dinner. A banana and an orange looked balefully at him. Apparently that was dessert.

He slumped morosely in his chair. Sam was in Dean’s bedroom, talking to his new girlfriend, Jess (Sam’d tried to talk to her in the living room at first, but Dean had grinned so evilly at him he had immediately begun to lock himself into Dean’s room to speak to her). Dean wondered if there was somewhere he could hide the salad that Sam wouldn’t notice, and came up with a blank. 

Dean grumbled quietly, then sat up and prepared himself. Barring a miracle, this was what he was eating tonight. Better get it over with.

He had clenched his eyes shut and was stabbing at the plate when there was a sudden knock at the apartment door.

Weird, he thought. Bobby always phoned before he came over, and Charlie was at her girlfriend’s this weekend. That left exactly… no one else to be visiting.

Dean put the fork down, crossed the room, opened the door, and found a tousle-haired, ridiculously blue-eyed, delicious-pizza-carrying goddamned miracle.


	4. Chapter 4

The man wasn’t moving.

Castiel _was_ fairly certain he had the right address. He had gone over the previous twenty that Dean Winchester had placed, and there was never any other address requested. Logically, this was the correct apartment.

So he was a bit confused (and unnerved) by the man’s silent, frozen stare.

He was pretty _sure_ this was Dean Winchester. He looked like Alfie once described him, as in, relatively tall, with short blond hair.

Castiel now believed that Alfie rather neglected to tell him the more pertinent details. Like how Dean Winchester’s eyes are a lovely, deep green. Or that his arms look like they have been sculpted out of sandstone. Or the freckles that dust his face like chili flakes, above lips that look like they’d fit Castiel’s perfectly.

You know. The most vital details.

After another moment of silence, hopefully-Dean-Winchester seemed to startle back to the present.

“Can…can I help you?” he asked, sounding almost… out of breath?

Castiel was not entirely sure what to make of that.

“Are you Dean Winchester?” he asked, staring seriously into those captivating eyes (Gabriel, Alfie, and even _Meg_ had told him how unnerving this can be, but Castiel had always believed that proper eye contact is essential when speaking to… anyone, really).

“…Yes?” Now-confirmed-Dean-Winchester replied, sounding confused. One eyebrow had gone up.

And maybe… a blush?

“Oh, good,” Castiel said; now smiling, pleased. “You’re alive, then.” And proceeded to hand Dean Winchester the pizza.

“Wait, what?” Now there was a bit of alarm on Dean Winchester’s face.

Castiel, for once, realized exactly how this scene must have happened in Dean Winchester’s eyes.

Oops.

“Ah,” he said. “I should perhaps clarify that I work at A Slice of Heaven. When we realized that you had not placed an order in a fairly long period of time, considering your usual rate, we grew… concerned, for your well-being. So, I am here with a complimentary customer appreciation pizza. My name is Castiel Novak.”

Castiel beamed.

Then he faltered, at the strange look on Dean Winchester’s face. Not… angry, or confused, exactly. But it almost appeared as though he was chewing on his own tongue? And he was still staring at Castiel.

“Um,” Castiel began, and stared over Dean Winchester’s left shoulder, “I do hope that this is not… I mean, I did not mean to intrude, or, or _presume_ , we, I mean I, just…” Now he was starting to flounder. “Alfie and Gabriel suggested it as an acceptable course of action or at least Gabriel did actually Alfie looked slightly stranger than normal and-” This was as far as Castiel managed to get before he looked back to Dean Winchester’s face.

Dean Winchester was grinning, and it was heart stopping.

He opened his mouth, and then, joyfully yelled something rather inexplicable.

“SAMMY!”

And proceeded to haul Castiel by one wrist into the apartment, and slammed the door behind them.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Dean was pretty sure this was a hallucination brought on by the lack of proper food in his life recently. Why the hell else would life present him with a free pizza, from his favourite pizza place, delivered by a man so adorably attractive that he makes Dean feel (and seemingly, act) like he’s six whiskies under the table?

Ok. Dean can think about this later (preferably after Sam has gone to sleep on his couch and he is alone in his bed. Ahem).

Anyways. There are important items to be discussed with his brother.

“SAMMY!” Dean hollered. “Get your butt out here!”

Sam finally made his way out of the bedroom, and then stopped abruptly, taking in the scene.

“Uh,” he began, “Dean?”

Dean grinned at him.

“Why… why are you holding a pizza box and a strange man by the wrist?”

Dean looked sideways and down, to see his fingers still wrapped around one tan wrist. Ah.

He had conveniently forgotten about that.

“Woops,” he said, and quickly unwrapped his (treacherous) fingers from the wrist. “My bad.”

“It is alright.” Castiel said seriously, but there was a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Dean was staring again.

He probably would have happily continued to do so, but Sam cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at Dean.

“Right!” Dean said, focusing. “Ok, this is my justification.” And motioned to Castiel.

Castiel waved a little.

Sam looked nonplussed.

“…For?” He asked.  

Sometimes Dean thinks that Sam’s genius might really have skipped a few spots. Seeing the obvious was apparently one of them.

“ _For_ exactly why pizza has a deserving place in my diet!” Deans announced.

Sam did not look convinced. In fact, Sam sighed so mightily that some of his hair flopped onto his forehead from the loose ponytail he had it in.

“Oh, c’mon, Sam! Wait. Castiel.” Dean turned to him.

“Tell Sam why you’re here?” He said, pleadingly.

Castiel turned that serious gaze directly on Sam, who looked startled. Dean didn’t blame him. Those baby blues had power.

“We grew concerned at our most frequent customer’s unusual lack of orders, so we decided to make certain he was well. He has been an excellent client, so I brought him a complimentary thank-you order.” Castiel clasped his hands together behind his back, looking vaguely pleased.

Sam blinked.

Dean inwardly cheered. Then had an idea. And clearly the best idea he’s ever had.

He bet another few pushes from this guy might really be enough to save him from salad hell, at least for tonight. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the hot- er, man, behind his favourite pizzas, right? Right!

He turned to Castiel.

“Dude, stay and eat with us,” He asked, smiling. 

Castiel gave him a look that reminded Dean of a baby deer in headlights (sorry, Bambi).

“I… I could not possibly impose-” he managed to get out, before _Sam_ interrupted him.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “It’s enough for all of us.”

This was working better than Dean imagined it would.

Castiel appeared to consider this idea carefully, before he nodded. “I believe Alfie can sufficiently manage by himself for some time.”

He glanced at Dean at the end of this, then quickly back to Sam.

Far better than he imagined, Dean thought.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

Castiel had been pleasantly surprised twice now.

Firstly, that his plan worked the way he wanted it to (even if he did not exactly plan it out as… fully as was probably necessary), and secondly (and this is the impressive part), that he was actually enjoying the company of two people he had just met.

Castiel was not exactly the kind of person that, to quote Gabriel, “got out much”: or really, almost at all. The two places he spent the most time at were the pizzeria and his own apartment. The people he saw the most were his brother and his employees. He was not an inherently loud or sociable person, and he liked the peace and quiet that came with being alone a lot.

He was starting to think, however, that he might need to make an exception for the Winchesters.

After Castiel had accepted the invitation for pizza, he was motioned towards the small grey couch in the center of the room and told to make himself comfortable. Dean had opened the pizza box right away with what almost sounded like a moan.

Well. Castiel does make good pizza.

Then Dean had explained to Castiel why exactly he had not ordered any pizza for the past (almost) three weeks, which had led directly to Castiel explaining the nature of his pizzeria.

The minute he had mentioned organic local produce, he had seen a light go on in Sam’s eyes.

After an hour, the pizza was gone, and they were still sitting on the couch (and coffee table, in Sam’s case- there was no way they were fitting three grown men, not to mention _Sam_ , on that couch) with Dean and Castiel trading stories about crazy customers (Dean is a mechanic downtown, Castiel learns) and Sam asking about Castiel’s business plan.

Castiel realized suddenly he felt comfortable here, in this tiny apartment with its blue walls, worn rug on the floor, and bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks and textbooks.

He only realized he’d unfocused for a few moments when he noticed that Dean was saying his name.

“Cas? You in there, man?” Dean was asking.

“Yes, my apologies,” he said. “My brother said I ‘zone out’, whatever that means.” Castiel shrugged, partially to hide his bewilderment. He’d never had a nickname (that he liked, anyways) before.

Dean smirked, “Yeah, brothers say stupid shit sometimes, don’t they, eh Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes and knocked one fist against his forehead, fingers towards himself. Dean responded by tapping a hand, palm open flat with his thumb crooked towards inwards, index-finger side against his chin.

“Is that… sign language?” Castiel asked. He had been pretty sure that was what was happening when Sam had been excitedly explaining his law degree, but it never hurt to confirm.

Dean and Sam both looked at him, eyebrows raised in unison.

“Yes, it is,” Sam responded. “Not everybody picks up on it. How’d you know?”

Castiel shrugged. “I read a book about it a few years ago, after a customer who was deaf came in. I have noticed that sometimes you use it when you speak. But you do not appear to have hearing loss?” Castiel looked at Sam curiously.

Sam and Dean both looked vaguely impressed.

Sam looked at Dean, and raised his eyebrows, to which Dean shrugged his shoulders. Sam turned back to Castiel.

“When Dean and I were younger,” he starts, “we kind of… moved around a lot, with our dad. We picked it up for when we needed to… talk, about things, without… some people… understanding.”

Dean took over. “We had one social worker, Tessa, who taught us most of the basics.” He sat back against the couch.

Castiel noticed immediately that Dean didn’t mention anything about his father. The same way he had noticed that there were no photos on Dean’s window ledge (the one filled with pictures of Sam, Dean and a red-headed women, and a G.E.D) of a man that looked like he could be their father.

Instead of commenting on this, he said, “That’s very impressive.” And meant it.

Sam looked delighted. Dean visibly relaxed.

An hour and a half later, Castiel explained that he really should be getting back to the pizzeria. The phone in his jacket pocket had switched from buzzing with texts every 20 minutes, to every 5, which did not bode well.

Dean offered to walk him outside. Sam looked at Dean, smirked, and signed something incredibly quickly. Dean blushed, smacked Sam upside the head, and quickly lead Castiel to the door.

Odd.

Castiel waved a goodbye to Sam as the door closed, and they walked down the stairs and out of the building in a companionable silence.

When they got to Cas’ car, he asked, “So, do you have any more classes this week?” (Not to prolong the conversation, of course. Not to keep staring at those beautiful green eyes. Not at all). Dean had told him about his balance of work and school, the ‘hell-commute’ (as Dean had vehemently put it) he took three days a week, and hence the pizza.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “One more. A theory of education for teenagers course that’s three hours in one go. Ah well, it’ll be worth it eventually.” And then, “You got a long night tonight?”

“Not anymore, I suppose,” Castiel replied thoughtfully. “Although that does depend on how worked up Alfie has managed to get so far.”

“Yeah, he does seem sort of… frantic, sometimes.” Dean smiled fondly.

Castiel likes this. This is easy. For once, he didn’t actually want to go back to the pizzeria. But duty awaits, he supposed.

“Well, I should be getting back,” Castiel said.

Dean opened his mouth- and then closed it. Twice.

And then replied, “Yeah, you’re right. Have a good night, ok?”

Castiel was strangely disappointed, although he couldn’t clearly articulate why.

“Thank you,” he said, “You as well.”

Castiel got into his car, and quickly pulled away. He looked back, and smiled, to see Dean waving.

And fervently (although a little apologetically) hoped Sam went back to school soon.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s was a dumbass.

But seriously, though. All it would have taken was a “Hey, you want to hang out again sometime?” or, “You know, I’m not a bad chef myself, let me make you dinner sometime in exchange for the pizza”, or even a goddamn “Can I get your number” and a dose of the ol’ Dean Winchester charm, and he wouldn’t be berating himself like this.

But no. Somehow, when the time for that came, he’d found that he just… couldn’t?

Dean sat back on his couch, grateful for the night off from school, even if it did mean more time for his mind to float to the subject that had been needling him for the past two days. He tapped the lip of his beer against his chin.

Maybe it was Cas’ adorable swallowed-a-dictionary way of talking. Maybe it was that they’d actually had a lot in common, like fantasy books and weird siblings and a strangely similar sense of humor (as Sam unfortunately discovered when Dean had made a truly terrible joke about pizza and Ray Bradbury, and Cas had chuckled with a sound like gravel).

He was sure that at least _part_ of it was when Cas had crossed his arms in front of his car before he left, and all Dean could think for a solid minute was how strong those arms must be after tossing pizza dough all the time, and how they’d look holding someone up against a wall.

In any case, the moment had come and he’d choked on it (not even remotely in the fun way).

It’d been two days, and it’s still all he can think about.

There was nothing for it, then. Time to bring in backup.

Dean put the beer down and found his phone on the bookshelf. He dialed, and it’s answered on the third ring.

“Dean!” Charlie said happily, if a little distractedly.

“Charlie,” Dean said, “You got a minute?”

“Depends,” she answered. “On a scale of one to ‘I-left-Sam-in-Vegas-with-cougars’, what kind of minute do you need?”

“It’s, ah,” Dean started. “There’s kind of… this dude?”

It was quiet on the other end for a second. Then some shuffling, low voices, a giggle, and the phone is clear again.

“I told Dorothy we needed to reschedule for tomorrow night, so go ahead.”

“Charlie, you didn’t have to-“

“Dude, not only did I promise her Italian food _and_ mind-blowing orgasms as a make-up, she already thinks you and your attempts at romance are fucking hysterical.”

“Charlie-“

“She also said good luck. So spill or I’ll come over there and force you to learn how to use Tumblr.”

Dean was defeated, and he knew it (especially because he knew she’d been dying to get him on Tumblr for months, something about “hot guys reading books” and her “follower stats”).

“You know that pizza joint I like so much?” He asked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gabriel stretched his arms towards the ceiling, and then crossed them and slumped down.

He was so damn bored.

And not his usual, care-free, waiting-for-excitement kind of bored. Not his waiting-between-scenes kind of bored.

His watching-paint-dry, watching-grass-grow, counting-strawberry-seeds kind of bored.

His deliveries had been normal all afternoon, Alfie hadn’t started bleeding recently, Meg was on vacation, and they were still editing his latest shoot.

_And_ , it’d been two days since he managed to convince Castiel to deliver that pizza to his number-one-fan.

Gabriel had almost been disappointed. When Castiel had come back and described his evening spent chatting with the Winchesters, Gabriel had almost decided to lock him in a room with a television and the Casa Erotica Pizza Party Mega Volume II (the one with Garth, not himself, _ew_ ). Even _Alfie_ had picked up on his plan, but of course he’d forgotten about Castiel’s impressive lack of knowledge of the most basic of pop culture references.

Anyways, he’d _almost_ been disappointed. Except Castiel had referred to Dean Winchester as simply Dean. And Gabriel’s ears had perked. And he’d been excited.

Except, obviously, the two asshats clearly had no idea what they were doing. There was no new number in Castiel’s phone (he had checked, of course) and it had been two days since Dean Winchester had ordered pizza. How hard did they plan on making this?

Gabriel sighed, and leaned back against the front counter. If all that fuss came to nothing, he was grabbing Genevieve and Jacob and going somewhere hot.

Seriously, he thought. What’s he got to do around here for some entertainment?

Suddenly, the tablet next to the phone light up (He’d gotten it for free from the folks at the studio after he got Castiel to start selling hats like the one in his videos. Sales had bounced up, although by far Gabriel’s favourite part from all that was when customers came to the pizzeria that were clearly some of Gabriel’s more devoted “customers”). Alfie had managed to program it to light up whenever an order came in through the website, which was great, considering the computer in the office was purchased off the elderly Iranian man that sold Castiel the pizzeria. That sucker barely loaded solitaire.

Gabriel wandered over. He wasn’t not technically on duty right now, as his shift ended 20 minutes ago, but last he saw Castiel and Alfie they were heavily absorbed in a combination of parmesan, Italian sausage, and rutabaga. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything _better_ to do right now.

He picked up the tablet and thumbed open the order. Huh, he thought, noticing the blinking extra-request box. That was unusual. Most of the time Castiel’s pizzas were so strange that nobody could think of anything to add.

Gabriel read the message. His eyebrows rose slowly. Then a thought struck him.

“It _can’t_ be…” he murmured, and checked the customer’s name.

Gabriel let out a whoop that could shake the rafters, if the pizzeria had any.

Castiel rushed in, still clutching a stray rutabaga.

“Gabriel? What is it?” he asked, alarmed.

Gabriel had already stuffed the tablet behind his back.

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” he said cheerily. “Was just happy that an order came in!”

“Oh?” Castiel said, looking suspicious. This was not one of Gabriel’s more trustworthy tones.

“Yes, yes,” Gabriel replied, “Such a _basic_ one I deleted the order, but I wrote down where it was going. I can take it, if you want?”

Castiel clearly wanted to ask more questions, but he also seemed still mostly focused on his pizza, as he always was in the middle of a new creation.

“I’m sure Alfie would appreciate helping you more than dashing out right now, wouldn’t he?” Gabriel said slyly.

“Yes, you’re right. What was the order, again?” Castiel was already drifting back towards the kitchen.

Gabriel thought fast. “Uh, a Spaghetti?” He then remembered, in a flash of brilliance (if he may say so himself, and he shall), “Like the one that customer never came for an hour ago! I’ll just pop it back in the oven for a few minutes, and it’ll be like new!”

Castiel nodded vaguely, and floated back through the doors to the kitchen.

The moment the doors swung shut behind him and he heard voices again, Gabriel grinned slowly. He grabbed his hat from the counter behind him, and placed it carefully on his head.

“Time,” he said happily, “For a very… _special_ delivery.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was pretty sure he’d worn a track in his rug from all of the pacing over the past half hour. It went from the front of the couch, over to the window which faces the parking lot, towards the kitchen, over to his bookshelf, and then back to the couch.

That’d be because Dean kept nervously sitting on his couch, then bouncing up, looking out the window for any strange cars, wandering over to the kitchen, then worriedly over to his phone to think about calling Charlie back, and then helplessly putting the phone down and going back to collapse on the couch.

He’d tossed his idea to Charlie, expecting her to tell him it was terrible and cheesy and stupid. Unfortunately for him, Charlie had thought it was absolutely fantastic. Then she pushed and cajoled and threatened until he’d actually done it. He could practically hear her now.

“Come _on_ , Dean. You barely know the guy. What’ve you got to lose?” She’d asked.

That was what had really gotten him, the fact that really, when you got down to it, she was right- he barely knew Castiel. And he was never going to register as anything more that an excellent customer if he didn’t _do_ something about it.  

Dean wandered, from where he was hovering by his phone, back to the couch. He stared, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him, at the receipt on his laptop from his order to A Slice of Heaven Pizzeria.

It read:

_Name for Order_ : **Dean Winchester**

_Method of Pickup_ : **Delivery to Location**

_Address_ : **12 Chicago Avenue, Apt 6, Lebanon, KS, 66952**

_Phone_ : **(785) 666-2877**

_Order_ : **1 Spaghetti Medium**

_Additional_ _Requests_ : **Please send your hottest delivery boy (sorry Alfie, not you).**

_Total_ : **18.95**

Your Order Will be Ready in 1 Hour  
  
---  
  
 

He’d suggested it as a joke, but it looked like it was real now.

Dean stared at the screen nervously for another minute, then shook himself, and leaned back against the couch, forcing himself to relax.

C’mon Winchester, he thought, get your sorry ass in gear. You’re handsome, you’re charming. Man, just last week that smarmy English bastard who drives the lame Lexus LFA offered you double the quota you gave to fix his carburetor if you got a drink with him! (Dean had turned him down because A) Seriously, who the fuck does that guy think he is, fucking royalty? B) drives a shitty ass Lexus, and C) seriously, what the _fuck._ )

Point is, Dean knows he’s got a few things going for him.  So _clearly_ he should stop worrying.

It’s at this moment that someone knocked on the door. Dean looked at his watch, and then headed over.

Weird. Cas is like a half hour early.

Also, Dean vaguely remembered a brief tap-tap knock from last time, versus this time’s tap-taptap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap. Then he’s more preoccupied with the realization that he even remembered Cas’ _knock_ from last time, which floats away from the acceptable harbour of interested-in and towards the dangerous shores of damn-obsessed-with.

Dean was thinking about this as he opens the door.

Dean opened. The.

Deans opened. The door.

That is most decidedly _not_ Castiel.

Not unless Castiel had shrank about three inches, grown some honey-brown hair and eyes, and had decided today would be the perfect day to wear tiny (what Dean can only describe as) blue booty shorts, a blue spandex polo shirt with a black leather collar un-buttoned halfway down his chest, and a bright blue ball cap emblazoned with the Slice’s logo.

Not-Castiel leaned against Dean’s door, holding a pizza bag in one hand, with the other stretched up the door frame. He looked up at Dean slowly, with a crooked grin. And announced, “Pizza for Dean Winchester?”

Dean gaped at him.  A strange sort of “geh” noise is all that escaped.

The man grinned wider. “Special delivery. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Dean was pretty sure his train of thought had derailed so hard that the passengers were all dead and buried already and someone’d made the train into a shed. For cows.

He thought he whimpered.

Unfortunately, the man seemed to take that as an invitation, because he proceeded to wink at him, then walked right towards Dean, who, in a panic, backed right into his apartment. The man carefully closed the door, and then took another step forwards.

Dean tripped over the coffee table and fell backwards onto his couch. He’d mutter sarcastically about “beauty and grace, Winchester” if he wasn’t still stuck in the train shed with those cows.  

“Not _quite_ as roomy as I’d like,” the man drawled, “But I’m sure I can… customize.”

The man tossed the pizza bag onto the coffee table, next to Dean’s laptop. Something pink, glittery, and honestly so large and vaguely shaped that Dean had to go by intuition to know what it was, bounced out.

Dean couldn’t feel his hands.

“Now!” The man announced, and clapped his hands together, “I believe you had a special request on your order.”

He snapped his fingers, and his bag started playing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” from hidden speakers.

His hands went to the buttons of his already loose shirt, and _that’s_ when Dean’s brain finally managed to snap back to reality.

“WAIT!” Dean yelled (it was _not_ a shriek, goddamnit, it was _not!)_ and attempted to flail his way upright. Unfortunately, he kicked the pizza bag by accident. It bounced the pink thing onto Dean’s stomach, where it promptly started vibrating so fiercely that Dean shrieked again (yeah, there’s no denying that one) and rolled off of the couch.

This was how he found himself flat on his back, jammed between the couch and the coffee table, attempting to defend himself with what was undoubtedly the largest and strangest vibrator Dean had ever encountered. Which was still vibrating hard enough to rattle Dean’s teeth.

There was a pause. Def Leppard sang about razzle dazzle.

And the guys _loses_ it.

Dean stared blankly from the floor, still frozen in defense position, while the man held his sides, half bent over, and laughed so hard he cried.

“What… the _fuck_?” Dean sputtered, finally locating the off button of the vibrator, and tossing it away from himself.

“Oh man!” the guy managed, between giggles and snorts, “In _no way_ did I predict this going so damn well!” He reached into the bag and pulled out a silk handkerchief, and started to wipe his face while he laughed.

Dean was starting to come back to normal. He carefully got to his feet and dusted himself off.

“I mean, seriously,” the guy continued, “When I asked the universe for a distraction, I didn’t expect such a _gift_. I must have really built up some karma from not putting purple dye in Alfie’s pizza dough last week.” He snapped his fingers again, and Def Leppard was silenced.

“Wait, you… you know Alfie? Are from the _Slice_?” Dean gasps.

“Hells yeah!” the guy responded. “My name’s Gabriel. Part-time pizza delivery boy, part-time “exotic movies” actor, full-time magnificent god of all that is awesome.” He punctuated the last one with a wink.

“Oh _yeah_ ,” he said suddenly, smirking, “also the hottest delivery boy at the Slice, if we’re excluding Alfie?”

Dean was pretty sure you could fry an entire egg breakfast on his face, it was suddenly so hot. He glared at the floor, muttering, “Damnit, Charlie.”

 Gabriel cackled again at all of this, then quieted, (for once, not looking like he just opened the gates of hell). He walked over to Dean and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean,” he asked, “Can I be honest with you?”

Dean nods, warily. Then found himself smacked sharply upside the head.

“Ow!” He said, rubbing his ear and glaring furiously. “What the hell, man!?”

“For god’s sake, dumbass, stop being a shit and ask my oblivious tool of a brother out!” Gabriel snapped at him. “What is _wrong_ with you two? It’s not that hard!”

“Alright! Alright!” Dean said, mostly out of self-preservation. This Gabriel dude was a little too erratic for Dean to keep up with.

“Thank you!” Gabriel said, crossing his arms. Then grinned, and said, “In _person_ , Dean. Unless you’d like it to be _Meg_ on delivery next time?”

Dean paled. He’d met Meg all of twice. Twice had been enough.

“In person,” he replied faintly.

“Good. And _now_ ,” Gabriel said, nabbing the bag and pink vibrator off the table in one flourish, “I must be off. So many more special deliveries, so little time!” And waltzed towards the door.

Just as he was opening it, something Gabriel said floated to the top of Dean’s over-wrought mind.

“Gabriel,” he said slowly.

Gabriel paused, the pizza bag slung jauntily over his shoulder. “Ya-huh?” he asked.

“Something you said… about Cas…” Dean said carefully.

“Yeees?” Gabriel said, arching an eyebrow.

“That he’s… I mean, that you’re his…?” Dean petered off with the horrified realization.

Gabriel grinned again. If Dean thought the other grins were Opening-the-Gates-of-Hell, this one was Tossing-Dean-In-And-Throwing-Away-the-Key.

Dean gulped.

“Nice to meet you at last, Dean Winchester.” Gabriel said, winked again, and strolled out the door.

Dean sagged against a wall as the door clicked shut.

In person, huh, he thought.

Time for a new plan.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel was staring fixedly at a kohlrabi when the doorbell chimed (well, chimes is perhaps the wrong word. One weekend while Castiel was at a food-centered small-business convention in Chicago, Meg and Alfie had managed to hack into the software for the doorbell and replace the sound of the doorbell to 3 seconds of a choir singing a hallelujah chorus. He would be irritated, except it _was_ an excellent doorbell. And Alfie had been so proud of himself for the choice).

Castiel didn’t move.

This wasn’t actually strange behaviour, not for Castiel, anyways. Meg, Alfie, and Gabriel regularly came into the kitchen to find him having, what _appeared_ to be, staring contests with one or two ingredients. It was how he looked when he was in the middle of the creation process. This was often coupled with acute deafness, so they all knew by now to leave him be, and make sure to answer the door, phone, and tablet, themselves.

The _un_ usual part of this was that Castiel’s laser-focus was not on the vegetable. It hadn’t been for the past 20 minutes.

Instead, he was thinking of the exact same thing he had been thinking of every time he tried to focus, for the past week.

He was thinking of the “complementary delivery” he made a week ago- and specifically, its recipient.

And it was starting to drive him completely crazy.

He would go to sprinkle a tablespoon of cinnamon into a batch of pizza dough, and dump in a cup because he ended up thinking of soft, messy brown hair. Meg left a copy of _The Return of the King_ on the counter, and he’d stared at the cover, remembering a bright, boyish smile describing why Pippin was the best hobbit. He had tried to compare Italian and Russian sausages for a new creation and… well, Alfie had found him 10 minutes later, arms crossed, eyes wide, staring at a spot on the wall and a faint rose blush spreading across his cheeks.  Thankfully, Alfie had simply thought he was coming down with a virus, and Castiel had been able to leave early, before Gabriel had shown up for his shift (Gabriel actually kept looking at him and smirking, but Castiel has not had the attention span to figure out why).

The point is, he could concentrate on anything.

In particular, he kept ruminating over the entire course of his evening with Dean, over and over and _over_ again. It had really been the best time he had had with other people in a very long time.

Castiel frowned at the kohlrabi.

Which was _also_ why he kept going over the evening, because really, why on earth was he being so very ridiculous as to not _do_ something about it? It had already been a week. Shyness be damned, there are some things (like the opportunity to sink his hands in that beautiful cinnamon hair and _pull_ ) that you do not give up so easily.

It was as Castiel was thinking of all of this, and had begun to jab and grumble at the helpless vegetable when Alfie bange abruptly through the kitchen doors, trying not to stumble over his feet (and the pyramid of kohlrabi Castiel had stacked next to the door) in his haste.

He then marched over to Castiel, grabbed one of his shoulders, and swung Castiel around to face him.

That Alfie, of all people, would do this, was more than enough to snap Castiel out of his thoughts. He blinked at Alfie.

Alfie smiled at him, one of his rare, blindingly adorable grins.

“First of all,” he stated, his hand still on Castiel’s shoulder, “I’m going to need you to give me more hours in the kitchen from now on.”

Castiel blinks again, dazed.

“And second,” he continued, “there’s someone here to see you. Right now.” He then pulled Castiel up off his stool, brushed the flour from his shirt, and took Castiel’s seat. Then he flailed his hand imperiously towards the door, and popped his earbuds from the iPod in his pocket into his ears.

Still flustered, Castiel pushed open the kitchen doors, and stopped dead in his tracks.

He thought he would recognize those shoulders anywhere. He thought they looked rather nice (rather _very_ nice) in his pizzeria.

Dean Winchester turned around from where he was examining a mural on the left wall, which depicted an angel descending from pearly gates; a pizza haloed above its head and uplifted arms.

 Dean smiled at him, a little nervously.

“Uh,” he said, “reverse special delivery?”

Castiel beamed.


	8. Epilogue

_6 months later_

Sam smiled happily to himself, closing his cell phone. Jess was working hard at her summer courses, but also kicking butt at Stanford’s most prestigious internship. It was too bad it left their phone calls, which would normally last upwards of three hours if he was away, to a half hour, but he was too proud of her to care.

In any case, it means he can definitely make it back to Dean’s place in time for dinner, if he picks up his pace a bit.

As he walked out of the coffee shop in downtown (Sam repressed the urge to roll his eyes here) Lebanon, Sam ruminated on how lucky he’d been to get this week of vacation off in time for Dean’s birthday. After their Dad died, Dean had started to make a tradition of birthdays- basically, that they always celebrated them together. Always. Dean had even driven from Kansas to California once, just for one day, because it was Sam’s birthday. It was important. So Sam is happy he could be in Lebanon to keep the tradition going.

He was also pretty excited that Castiel was coming over after dinner. Dean’s boyfriend, while still a tad bewildering with that truly impressive _stare_ he has, was quickly pushing his way into Dean’s, and therefore Sam’s, life, with an ease Sam had rarely seen before. And given how happy that made Dean, it also makes Sam happy.

Sam trotted up the stairs in the apartment building, humming a little. He thought about seeing if Dean wanted pizza, just this once.

Thus preoccupied, it didn’t strike Sam as strange that the front door was unlocked.

He walked in the door, tossed his bag onto the couch, and turned into the kitchen, about to yell Dean’s name.

And immediately wished, harder than he had ever wished for anything in his life (and in that moment, he was absolutely certain, harder than anyone had ever wished for anything ever before or ever will after), that he hadn’t.

“JESUS CHRIST- for fuck’s sake, guys!” Sam yelled, backpedaling as quickly as possible out of the room, hands plastered over his eyes. “That is _not_ what you do with pizza sauce!”


End file.
